University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

When Fleetwood re-entered the parlor at Mr.
Gordon's, he found that during his brief absence
the ladies had disappeared.

“Amuse yourself with a book, Frederick, while
I recall the fugitives,” said Mr. Gordon, quitting
the room.

But Fleetwood found that the company of his
own perplexed meditations was quite sufficient.
Let us leave him to them, while we follow Mr.
Gordon in quest of his daughter.

He abruptly entered her sleeping-room, and standing
with his back leaning against the closed door,
and his arms folded, he regarded Emily for some
moments in silence. She was sitting in a large,
old-fashioned easy-chair, with her clasped hands
resting carelessly in her lap, and her eyes fixed
thoughtfully upon the floor. On seeing her father,
she started from her posture, and rising, turned on
him a half apprehensive and guilty glance.

“Have you not dutifully obeyed my injunctions?”
he said, in a bitter and measured voice, lingering
upon every word as if to wring from it all the
severity of which it was capable. “What, girl!
would you have betrayed me—thwarted me—
foiled me—your own father?”

“No, sir; indeed I intended to say nothing that

should throw a suspicion—that should raise a doubt
as to your—”

“Have a care, girl! Luckily your inuendoes
were misinterpreted. I heard them all, and watched
their effect—the self-satisfied youth construed
them as the wild and broken manifestations of a
sentimental fancy for himself—he supposed you
were in love with him—but it was not through any
fault of yours that his eyes were not opened, and
my plans defeated.”

“O, my father,” exclaimed Emily, wringing her
hands imploringly, “abandon this unholy scheme!
If adversity threatens us, let it come! Do not try
to avert it by unrighteous means, by injustice, by
deception. While we have free souls, what
though—”

“Have done with this tiresome canting. What
is it that I demand of you? That you so exercise
the fascinations you possess that this young Croesus,
who is now below, shall make you his wife.”

“Is Mr. Fleetwood then still below?” asked
Emily, in a despairing tone. “I thought he had
quitted the house.”

“He returned to escape the storm—he remains
here to-night—and—mark you—I expect you to
go down, and make yourself more agreeable than
you have seen fit to do as yet.”

“My father, did you not tell me that he was engaged—that
he was under a promise to marry this
very week?”

“And what if he is? How very scrupulous you
have grown all at once! Why, girl, I have seen
you so play the Syren before now as to make men
faithless to their wedded wives—as to make lovers
forsake their affianced mistresses, whom they
fancied they adored till they saw you. Have you
forgotten the bloody duel—the suicide—which are
among the trophies of your heartless coquetry?”

“My father, this is cruel—it is—

“It is true—and you know it.”

“Ah, then let me not add to the catalogue of my
offences. Let me not break the heart of an innocent
girl by driving the lover, to whom she has
confided all her hopes, to perfidy!”

“Bah! Why will you talk so, when you know
I despise cant? Girl's hearts are not so easily
broken—as you are well aware. Listen to me.
There are two all controlling reasons why this
match should be prevented. One is, that Fleetwood
must marry you and no one else—and the
other is, that of all women in the world he must
not marry Adela—the girl to whom he is engaged.”

“And why should she be proscribed more than
others?”

“For reasons, on which your prosperity and
mine and that of all my family may depend.”

“Indeed! I thought she was a nameless, obscure
girl—how can we be affected by her marriage?”

“It is no time for explanation now. Let me be
obeyed, unless you would see me ruined.”

Ah! do not urge me to this step. Do not drive
me to that, at which my conscience, my heart revolts!”

“Your heart! How long is it, Miss, since you
had such a toy? But I know the cause of your
refractoriness. You would wed that beggarly
Count, La Salle—you would wed him—and not
for love—but for his title.”

Emily hung her head as if a part at least of the
accusation were true.

“Look you, daughter,” continued Mr. Gordon,
detecting at once the effect of his remark; “were
you a fool—a green girl—it might be cruel in me
to urge you as I do upon this point. But you are

a woman of the world—from a child you have
been a sort of pet in the lap of society—you have
been bred to luxury, and must ever feel the need
of it—you have loved and been loved—you are at
an age when the reasoning faculties should be predominant.
Do I ask you to make a repulsive
match? On the contrary, would not nine hundred
and ninety-nine women out of a thousand, ay, and
men too, say that Fleetwood was infinitely the
Count's superior in intellectual and personal advantages,
as well as in those which the world
prizes so highly? You shake your head. Damnation,
girl, do you pretend to compare the two?
Why, La Salle is unworthy to lick the dust from
the other's shoes. Ah! but I forgot—the Count
has in one thing the advantage—Fleetwood doesn't
play on the fiddle—the one has the manners and
attainments of a gentleman—the other those of a
dancing-master.”

“Why will you compel me to injure a being
who has never done me harm?” asked Emily.

“Her very existence does you harm—does all
of us harm,” exclaimed Mr. Gordon, with violence.
“Look you, girl, am I a man to be subjected to the
indignities, the humiliations, the crushing, heart-wearing
annoyances of want, after having been
accustomed from my very birth to affluence and
the ready gratification of all my tastes? Should I,
think you, receive with patience the sneering condolence
of men who have for years looked up to
me with envy? Should I listen with equanimity
to their heartless commentaries upon my ruin?
Or, do you imagine, that should the time come, as
come it will if you thwart me in my plans, when
my grocer will refuse to trust me for a barrel of
flour until my last quarter's bill is paid—do you
imagine, that under such a mortification, I would
consent to live?”

“Ah, my father, surely, surely there is no danger
of any such event. We can reduce our establishment
many thousands a-year, and still live comfortably,
respectably.”

“Reduce our establishment! Why, girl, I have
lived for the last twelve months solely on the credit
of my splendid establishment. Take it away, and
absolute ruin would stare me in the face. A whole
legion of creditors would beleaguer me. Listen.
The stupendous expenses which I have been at for
the last ten years, have not been indulged in without
seriously impairing my fortune. On my last
return from Europe, I found that I had been in the
habit of spending more than double the amount of
my income. Instead of husbanding my resources,
selling off all my costly superfluities, and moving
into the country for a while, until I had made up
my losses, I foolishly launched into speculation in
the hope of retrieving in a few days the extravagances
of spendthrift years. I have been unsuccessful
in all my movements in Wall-street. A few
misdirected operations on a large scale in stocks
have been sufficient to rob me of a fortune. Everything
that is supposed to be my own is mortgaged
for its full value. My means of raising money are
exhausted. The little sum in cash which is left to
my credit in the bank is ebbing daily. What am I
to do when it is quite gone? Bred as a gentleman,
with no profession, no pursuit, to what can I
turn my hand, whereby to wring from the hard
world a pittance for the support of myself and
family? I look around, and see but one means of
escape from degradation and ruin. It is in your
marriage with Fleetwood. I made you cultivate
that odious Mrs. Dryman with the view of meeting
him. You have succeeded; and circumstances
have favored us far more than we could have
hoped. I know the exact extent of Fleetwood's

pecuniary resources. They are immense. He is
a gentleman by birth and character, and any girl
might be proud of him as a husband. She, to
whom he has rashly engaged himself, is—a disreputable
person. There are ways of proving this
to his satisfaction—and it will be done. How then
can you have any compunction, on her account,
about securing Fleetwood for yourself?”

“Do you mean to say,” asked Emily, “that in
any event, and independently of aught that I may
do, you shall break off this match of Fleetwood's?”

“Unquestionably. We have but to let him see
with his own eyes, and hear with his own ears,
and there is no fear but that he will repudiate the
girl, and with good and sufficient cause.”

Emily was deeply concerned at the revelations
her father had made. She had no reason to doubt
them, for he had never deceived her. Accustomed
to plenty, and never knowing what it was to have
a demand for money refused, she recoiled with dismay
from the prospect of actual poverty. And
then there were duties which she owed to others.
Her father's family was large and expensive. The
mother had died about two years before, leaving
six children, of whom Emily was the eldest. The
remaining five were considerably younger; and,
from motives of economy, Mr. Gordon had placed
them all at boarding-schools. What would become
of them in the event of such ruin and disaster as
threatened them, unless she came to the rescue?
Visions of orphan asylums, of milliner's apprentices,
and boys sent out to cruel task-masters to learn a
trade, flitted across her imagination, until, after
pacing the floor a few moments in an excited state
of mind, she placed her hand in her father's, and
exclaimed: “I'll do it!”

“That's a brave girl—that's my own daughter,”
said Mr. Gordon, rapturously. “Forgive me, Emily,

if I have been harsh—and forget the cutting
things I may have said.”

“You had reason in saying them, my father.
Had I dreamed that your necessities were of so
serious a nature, you would not have found me so
obstinate. I had scruples, it is true, but what you
say of the impossibility of Fleetwood's marrying
when he knows the truth in regard to her to whom
he is affianced, has set my mind at ease. But do
you not exaggerate the power of my charms to
captivate this young man?”

“Not at all. If you do but set about it with a
will, you can easily accomplish your object. But
you must forget all about the Count, my dear.”

“That I will try to do, my father—although, I
must say, that I think you were a little too hard
upon him.”

“Perhaps so—but you will confess that Fleetwood
is certainly the more eligible match of the
two?”

“Yes,” said Emily, with a sigh—“the more
eligible.”

Mr. Gordon was right in calling his daughter a
woman of the world. But she occasionally indulged
in day-dreams of what she might be could the
better part of her nature once gain the ascendant
and keep it. They had faded now.

“But we are wasting time,” said Mr. Gordon.
“We must not leave Fleetwood any longer alone.”

Emily cast a hasty glance at the mirror on her
toilet-table—re-arranged a stray curl—and, with
the glow of an anticipated conquest mantling her
cheeks, passed out of the room in advance of her
father. She descended the stairs slowly and
thoughtfully, as if to collect her thoughts in reference
to the kind of tactics which she ought to adopt
towards Fleetwood. He was already under a
misapprehension in regard to the state of her affections.

Should she encourage it, and win his pity
under the pretence of a misplaced passion, or should
she, by an apparent invincibleness and a cold indifference
to his fascinations, pique his vanity and
awaken the appetite of pursuit? She was still undetermined
as to the course which it would be
most expedient for her to choose, when she entered
the parlor.

Fleetwood was pacing the saloon. His thoughts
were of Adelaide: he was trying to fix before his
mind's eye a perfect representation of her features.
But the expression varied like the shifting lights
upon a tree, whose leaves are blown by the wind.
Emily was near enough to touch him before he was
aware of her presence.

“Your thoughts must be pleasant ones,” said she,
while he started on regarding her—“I trust I have
not put them to flight.”

“Had they been sad ones, most assuredly you
would have done so,” replied Fleetwood.

“Ah, would that I might believe I had even that
power over you!” sighed Emily.

“Will you take a seat, or will you walk?”

“I will walk.”

What could Fleetwood do but offer his arm?

“And is she very beautiful—she to whom—
who—” and Emily turned away her head as if to
hide her agitation. Then appearing to rally her
spirits, she exclaimed: “Of course, she is beautiful
—and she loves you devotedly—passionately?”

Fleetwood felt her arm tremble in his. What
reason had he to doubt the reality of her apparent
emotions—to doubt that he had suddenly become
to her an object of the tenderest attachment?

But did he waver for an instant in his loyalty towards
Adelaide? Not for an instant. And yet
a dangerous pity for Emily, who under such circumstances

had conceived for him so utterly hopeless
a passion, began to pull at his heart-strings.

The storm, which had been increasing in severity,
was now accompanied by tremendous peals of
thunder. Emily had inherited a nervous susceptibility
to the sound. It never failed to awaken a
sort of frantic alarm, under the influence of which
she entirely lost her self-control. And now, at the
first peal, she clung with unaffected terror to
Fleetwood's arm. She had composure enough,
however, to say:

“I am not myself when it thunders—pray, call
my father quickly—quickly!”

Fleetwood led her to a sofa, and went to pull the
bell. A minute elapsed, and no one came. He
was moving towards the entry to call Mr. Gordon
when another thunder-crash more violent than the
one which had preceded it, seemed to shake the
whole house.

“Do not leave me—do not leave me!” shrieked
Emily, darting towards him, and almost fainting
in his arms.

He lifted her to bear her towards the sofa. Her
breast heaved against his own.

“There is no affectation here,” thought he, as he
felt the quick and violent throbbing of her heart,
and saw the color forsake her cheeks.

He sat by her side—he held her hand—her head
rested upon his shoulder—and his left arm circled
her waist. Her curls brushed his cheek.

The door was opened—opened noiselessly—and
when, after a brief interval of silence, Fleetwood
looked up, he saw Count La Salle standing before
them.

With folded arms, his eyes flaming with jealousy,
and his lips quivering, La Salle stood and regarded
them. Fleetwood did not attempt to move Emily
from her position. At length her eyes opened, and

the first object they rested upon was La Salle.
She rose instantly to her feet, and assumed a look
of proud and dignified composure.

“I see I have entered inopportunely,” said the
Count. “I am de trop—I wish you joy, Mademoiselle,
of your new conquest. What pretty things
hearts are to play with! Won't you have another?”

“Had I ever given you any right, sir, to use
this language,” returned Emily, “it would still be
insolent; but having none, you are doubly unmannerly.”

“O, I did not expect to take you off your guard,”
said the Count—“not at all! A woman, who has
made up her mind to play the game, of which you
seem to be fond, must of course have tact and self-possession.
But why not give a hint to your footman
not to admit visitors on such occasions as the
present? These contretemps must be provoking to
so consummate a diplomatist as yourself in affairs
of the heart. But I beg pardon. I am detaining
you from more agreeable pastimes.”

Emily bowed, and replied: “I shall be pleased
to see you prove that you are truly aware of that
fact.”

“It is a loving and a fair reply, Mademoiselle,
and one which I had reason to expect from the
character of our past intercourse.”

“There has been nothing in that, sir, which you
are not at liberty to proclaim to the whole world.”

“You have said it, Mademoiselle: and you are
impatient at my stay. I humbly take my leave.”

“You can take nothing, with which I would
more willingly part,” retorted Emily, borrowing a
line from Hamlet.

“I thank you for your amiable attempts to exasperate
me, Mademoiselle,” replied the Count, his
accents tremulous with rage. “But I shall compensate

myself for this treatment by deeds—not by
words. As for you, sir,” continued he, turning to
Fleetwood, “you have been a party to it—an innocent
one, perhaps, and yet a responsible one.”

“You may put what construction you please,
sir, upon anything I have done or may do,” replied
Fleetwood, coldly.

“I thank you, sir, for the privilege,” returned La
Salle. “As the man says in the play, the time
may come when I can cry quittance! Till then,
sir, farewell! And farewell to you, Mademoiselle.”

La Salle strode out of the room without any
farther exhibition of his jealousy and spleen.

There was a cessation in the storm without.

“His conduct is inexplicable,” said Emily. “I
assure you I have avoided that man and his attentions
as much as possible.”

“Not knowing the relations that might exist between
you, I could not venture to say much,” said
Fleetwood.

“There are no relations save those of ordinary
acquaintanceship,” replied Miss Gordon.

“Since we are no longer likely to be interrupted
by the thunder, perhaps you will let me hear the
sound of your harp-strings again?” said Fleetwood,
taking her hand and leading her towards
the instrument.

“What shall be the theme?” inquired she.
“Pardon me—I forgot—there is but one theme
suitable to your frame of mind.” And she heaved
a deep sigh.

“Nay, Miss Gordon, my sympathies are not so
very exclusive as you seem to suppose. Sing to
suit yourself.”

After a long and melancholy but exquisitely melodiously
prelude, Emily sang those lines of Viola's,
“She never told her love,” so exquisitely wedded
to music by one of the masters of the English

school. Nothing could be more touching and
earnest than the expression she gave to the passage.
It seemed the out-gushing of a breaking
heart. Fleetwood was sensitively alive to the influence
of sweet sounds; and his ears drank in the
last vibrations of her voice and harp with eager
attention—with subdued feelings of commiseration
—almost tenderness. Emily, after she had finished
the strain, buried her face a moment in her hands;
and then, looking up, with an apparent effort to be
gay, she said: “I will sing you something less
grave—less—in earnest.” The last two words she
uttered in a whisper, as if to herself, but they were
not unheard by Fleetwood. Dashing her hand
over the strings, she carolled in a clear, triumphant
tone Ariel's enchanting strain, “Where the bee
sucks, there lurk I.”

Fleetwood was charmed—any lover of music
would have been—by her singing.

“Good night, Mr. Fleetwood,” she said, rising
suddenly at the conclusion of the melody. “It is
growing late—the servant will wait upon you to
your apartment—or, if my father has not retired, I
will send him to you. Good night!”

Her utterance was slightly choked, as she hurriedly
said these words.

“Good night, Miss Emily; and may your dreams
be as pleasant as Ariel's own.”

Emily was moving towards the door. She turned
as if to reply to Fleetwood's kind wish, and then
as if she dared not trust her voice, she abruptly
quitted the room. Shortly afterwards Mr. Gordon
entered, and conducted his young guest to the
apartment he was to occupy for the night.

The style in which this sleeping-room was fitted
up, accorded with the magnificence of the rest of
the house. The walls were hung with crimson
silk. The carpet was one of the softest and thickest

ever woven by a Turkish loom. The bed was
small, low and simply constructed, but gilt so as to
resemble massive gold. Two immense mirrors,
reaching from the ceiling to the floor, and imbedded
in the wall, occupied the principal part of the space
on either side of the richly carved marble fire-piece.

Fleetwood held a candle in his hand, and as he
advanced towards one of these mirrors, he started
and trembled at the reflection of an image, the
lineaments of which were stamped indelibly upon
his memory. Was it a false creation “proceeding
from the heat-oppressed brain?” For a moment
he stood spell-bound. He then turned his head
slowly to see whence the reflection came. It was
from a painting on the wall—a painting of a young
and beautiful female—how like it was to Adelaide!

“Whose portrait is that?” he earnestly asked.

Mr. Gordon hesitated, and bit his lip with suppressed
vexation. But Fleetwood's eyes were
fixed upon the painting, and he did not notice his
host's confusion.

“That is a fancy-piece,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly
recovering his self-possession. “The artist was
painting Emily, but failing in the likeness, he converted
it into what you see.”

“Strange!” murmured Fleetwood—“it is so like
Adelaide Winfield, that I should suppose she had
sat for it.”

“Ah, a lover's eyes sometimes detects resemblances
which no one else can discover,” said Mr.
Gordon, assuming an indifferent tone. “May you
be haunted, Frederick, by no visions less fair!
Good night!”

“Good night, sir! This room looks like the
very sanctuary of sleep—tired nature's sweet
restorer, balmy sleep! One can hardly tread the

carpet without a sensation of drowsiness. Good
night!”

Once more Fleetwood was alone. He stood for
some minutes with the candle uplifted over his
head, gazing at the portrait, which had excited his
surprise and curiosity.

“A singular coincidence!” murmured he, at
length placing the candle upon the mantel; and
then, sinking into a chair, which invitingly spread
its arms before him, he mused upon the occurrences
of the day. “Poor Emily! How she struggles
to hide the misplaced and wholly hopeless affection
which cannot be disguised! I will avoid her henceforth.
Could I ever have loved her, had I not seen
Adelaide? Let me compare the two. The one
debarred from all society, possesses yet a native
dignity and grace far more winning than any that
education could give. She only knows the world
from books. With few to love and very few to
praise, she has the besoin d'aimer to a degree that
is all the more intense because it has never found
objects on which to lavish its wealth. Look on
the other picture—here is Emily, who for years
has been a pet of society—has had admirers, lovers,
perhaps, without number—still she seems to preserve
her freshness of feeling—although occasionally
the traits of the hackneyed woman of the world
break forth. She is an enigma—and must be
studied profoundly to be known. On the contrary,
you can read Adelaide's character at the first interview.
Her ingenuousness is the most perfect that
I ever witnessed in a human being. She is the
only woman I ever met, whom I could not believe
to be capable of a stratagem. Feminine in all her
attributes, she has yet acquired from intercourse
with masculine minds in books a certain intellectual
vigor, which it is hard to reconcile with her uniform
gentleness. Compare the two in point of

personal attractions, and Adelaide's superiority
must be unquestioned. In accomplishments too
she excels. Both are musical—but Emily's voice
reminds me of concert-rooms and prima donnas,
while Adelaide's suggests dreams of angelic harmonies.
Yes, Adelaide, thou art in every way the
worthier of my choice—ay, worthier, notwithstanding
thou art nameless, friendless and unclaimed—
worthier even wert thou scorned by all the world,
save my own idolizing heart!”

Fleetwood took one last look at the portrait;
and then, perceiving by a glance at his watch that
the hour was late, he laid himself down to sleep—
nor did he long have to woo the influence of that
power which “knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.”
A soft but profound slumber soon sealed up his
senses.

All at once he started from his bed with his eyes
wide open, and a vague consciousness of the presence
of some one in the room. He looked about
him, exclaiming at the same moment, “Who's
there?” The weather had changed since he had
been asleep. The storm had passed away, and the
moon rode brightly in the skies, pouring a flood of
lustre into the room through the openings in the
saffron curtains, which fell in rich folds before the
windows.

Fleetwood started to his feet. He could have
sworn he saw a shadow move across the wall
opposite to the windows. He turned in the direction
of the light. He distinctly saw the curtain
move, and heard it rustle. Repeating his exclamation
of “Who's there?” he rushed to the embrasure.
The window was closed—so it was not possible
that the wind could have created the motion.
There was no one behind the curtains—no vestige,
no sound of a visitor. Nor could he discover any
mode of egress. There were inside window-shutters.

He unfolded them. The wall seemed solid
behind them—and there was no sign of any contrivance
by which they could be made to give
way.

“Pshaw!” said Fleetwood, returning to his
couch. “It must have been a delusion—I was
dreaming.”